


don't you know you're life itself?

by liamnoel



Category: Oasis (Band)
Genre: M/M, Sex but not smut, Sibling Incest, fluff! for once!!, references to art i dont know or understand
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-17
Updated: 2019-11-17
Packaged: 2021-02-08 02:16:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,771
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21468424
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/liamnoel/pseuds/liamnoel
Summary: Your hair and your skin, I know my desireI felt akin to my desireYour eyes and your faceI dreamed them in the nightYour hair and your skinI saw them swimming over here.1991
Relationships: Liam Gallagher/Noel Gallagher
Comments: 17
Kudos: 75





	don't you know you're life itself?

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文-普通话 國語 available: [Don't You Know You're Life Itself?](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21788488) by [Issas](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Issas/pseuds/Issas)

> HEY! i dont like my writing anymore but i hope you do!
> 
> sorry for the overly flowery language
> 
> this doesn't really have a plot or a point but i hope u like it nonetheless!! as always, comments mean the world to me <33 xoxo
> 
> (title & description from "hair and skin" by mazzy star which is quite on brand for these two)

Louise is a lot smarter than Noel is, a lot more cultured. She didn’t grow up posh by any means, but her father had gone to uni and instilled in his children a love for the “finer things”, and apart from music, Noel can’t quite relate. Well, including music, really – he couldn’t tell you a thing about jazz or classical or any of that.

But he’s a good boyfriend when he’s trying, so he listens to her go on about poetry and the like, pretends to have an ear for the difference between Greek and Latin, an eye for Manet and Monet. He hates himself for it, but as they stand contemplating some old stone freed by Michelangelo he resents the feel of Louise’s hand in his – it’s clammy, and there are children watching them, and his mind’s always been too scattered to study a piece of art before him the way she can so effortlessly.

One night he finds himself in a fever-dream wandering the open halls of the Whitworth as the canvasses move and undulate before him, impressions of fields and oceans giving way to men holding men, a gorgeous long-haired thing of soft brushstrokes writhing underneath someone stronger. His mouth is wrenched open wide and dripping filthy prayer, flat chest soft with newgrown hair. The shadows of his shoulderblades and furrowed brows are shaded sea-blue. Noel wakes in a muggy bedroom with Louise’s ass pressed up against him in coral silk, dropping a kiss against her vertebrae and lamenting the fact that he always lets her pay when they visit museums. It’s tragic, he thinks, how happy she is; the way she just doesn’t know a thing. But that’s the way it ought to be.

⟡ ⟡ ⟡

“Can you draw faces?”

Liam is full of questions today. He draws a face himself on the paper he’s taken to scribbling at, crossing it out in jagged lines immediately after. He was certainly not born to draw.

“I’m not an artist. If I was any good at it I’d be showing it off, don’t you think?”

“No. I think you’re full of secrets.”

“Am I?”

“I think you love to hide yourself away.”

Noel doesn’t disagree.

“And you don’t wanna be found.”

⟡ ⟡ ⟡

Liam’s become an incredible kisser, Noel finds himself noticing. It’s not like he’s new to it, obviously; he’s been doing it with girls since he was thirteen or so, but now that he’s stumbled knees-first into adulthood there’s a seriousness there, a real passion. He kisses less like a little boy cheating on his girlfriend, and more like a lover.

He lets him lead sometimes: lets Liam show him what he can do with his tongue, show him what he’s learned. _Learned from me._ Lets his mouth go slack and drowns in the way Liam uses the muscle to pry open his brother’s lips, trace the ridges on the tips of his teeth. And he luxuriates in the variations in sensation when their two tongues touch in different places; the bizarre electric shock at the tip, long-worn little scars and tears across the surface, the alien softness of the undersides. A sticky well of weed- and toffee-flavored saliva in the hollow behind Liam’s bottom teeth, like a jar of paint that Noel can re-wet his tongue in again and again so he can keep making art inside their mouths.

Sometimes if they’re high enough he can get Liam whining and whimpering under his lips and it’s all muffled vibrations, the buzz and the hum so overwhelming he feels like he must be dreaming, like Liam will be a kitten in his lap forever, like his orgasm won’t transform him from immaculate angel back into an insufferable, annoying, devious piece of shit. None of that here. In bed Noel pretends this is the _only_ Liam, needy and greedy and rolling his hips up, _more more more Noel_, the whining reminiscent of his daily self, but far too depraved for anyone else to have the pleasure to see.

He is astonishing, summer-hued hair sweat-matted in places on his forehead, hints of freckles across his cheeks and shoulders, dew in the dips of his collarbones and stars in his eyes. Seashell teeth digging into that fat lower lip and Noel wants to demand _keep going, bite harder_, so he can see the skin break and the scarlet flow and dirty both their skin. He does it himself instead, leans in and nips just enough to draw a few beads of blood to the surface. It tastes so much better than it should. Liam makes a noise like he’s going to come again, and it’s art, unspoiled. 

Da Vinci never made anybody moan like that.

⟡ ⟡ ⟡

“I’m fucking bored, man. We should go out today.”

Noel glances up from his magazine to look out the window. It’s just the way you’d expect for Manchester in November. He’s a bit disillusioned with nature at the minute, to be honest; the day before, he’d made the mistake of wearing new trainers on a mile’s walk. If one could start a fight with a puddle, he’d have left its spine broken. Hopefully the mud will scrape off easily once the suede dries.

“It’s disgusting out.”

“I’m not suggesting we have a fucking picnic or summat. Let’s just _do_ somethin’.” Liam’s a bundle of energy today, as typical as the weather is, and he’s in and out of Noel’s line of sight more times than he can count. The music that had been playing stops abruptly.

“Put that back on, what are you doing?”

“I wanna listen to the Pistols.”

Liam sits with his back to the bookshelf underneath the record player, closing his eyes and leaning his head back against some of Louise’s poetry collections. His neck is long and pale. Noel feels a rush of gratitude at this private moment, an allowance for him to greedily drink in the sight of his younger brother. His hair is shining.

He’s a peculiar creature, looking absolutely serene: lost in the punk-rock din the way you’re meant to when you’re listening to Beethoven or Brahms. _Oh, now I got a reason, now I got a reason._ Liam thinks Johnny Rotten is dead cool, but Noel’s not so sure. He won’t ever say it, but he often prefers when the frontman is prettier than that.

It’s been a strange morning. Louise is on holiday with her sisters, hence the singer half-dressed on the sitting-room parquet. Noel had returned home from his year abroad that August, and once the explosion of loss and lust and hatred and love between them had cooled, things were different than before. In a multitude of ways. October brought Noel into the fold of what was now called Oasis, and they were still within a honeymoon phase of sorts. Louise leaving even for one night had become a Godsend, now that Liam had found a home in between his sheets.

A strange morning: to start it all, Noel had woken while Liam still slept, which was quite irregular. Sandy sleep was gathered on the younger’s lashes and it made him smile, remembering a time in their childhood when Liam had gasped from across the room, astonished to wake up and find his left eye “glued” shut by the sleep and asking Noel why the faeries had gone and done that to him. He must’ve been only four or five, still thinking faeries were real. Well, he’s even stupider now, really, more childish. He believes in things much, much worse.

Noel made himself coffee instead of tea, another out-of-character move. He drank it black, climbing back in bed clad only in boxers with the mussed sheets drawn up around his raised knees. Liam was faking sleep at that point and he knew it, he was lying there basking in the smug knowledge that he’d got all of his brother’s attention. It was completely silent in the room, apart from the slightest patter of rain on the outside sill and the odd thump from the radiator. Neither man was looking at the other but it held the air of a staring contest, nonetheless.

Eventually Liam had put on a tiringly dramatic show of waking up, the loud and exaggerated full-body yawn, thin body going taut then slack like a stretching cat. The quilt was thrown carelessly to the side, slipping to the floor, and Noel was reminded with a jolt that Liam was still naked (as if he ever forgets what’s underneath his clothes anyway). The kid had removed the mug from Noel’s hand and placed it on the nightstand, putting himself between the guitarist’s fingers instead, fitting so dumbfoundingly well against all the curves and crevices of his body. Noel knew he surely wanted something, but Liam’s nudity wasn’t necessarily erotic in the moment: closer to comfort, a bizarre feeling of normalcy inside a relationship that could be described as anything but. He’s used to it, though, used to seeing Liam naked, a familiarity borne from nineteen years of seeing it in an ordinary, ascetic way, which included only (_only_) two years of sexual desire, and just under twelve weeks of being allowed inside. His brother’s skin is (and always will be) familiar, which is a terrible word, Noel thinks, considering the root of it is _family_.

The strangest moment, though, was when Liam came to him still shirtless, sat on the floor before the sofa, and asked Noel to brush his hair. It put electricity through him and it felt sort-of wrong to be doing this now, when that was the _old_ Liam and Noel, that was childhood and five and ten and completely platonic. This _thing_, or rather, the inevitable consummation of it, was still so new that Noel’s thoughts on it were barely even beginning to make sense. Every day, it was new questions that came to his mind, not answers. Despite that, he has enough sense to know that just because he and Liam are shagging now doesn’t mean they can snuff the brotherly side of their relationship out. And he doesn’t want to. There doesn’t have to be a sexual charge to everything they do, and if the universe is bent on delivering him images of the past while he cares for Liam, then so be it. He’s still his baby brother, always will be.

So Noel had obliged him, taken the brush from his hands and pulled it down through the strands the way he hadn’t done in well over a decade. It was comforting to them both, as it turned out. He could feel every bit of tension leave Liam’s body as he brushed, enamored with the silk and shine of his beautiful hair, longer than his ears and still slightly resembling the bootleg-Inspirals bob Liam had gotten the year before, jealously emulating Noel who in turn had been emulating Clint. It would have been a lot funnier if the jealousy had nothing to do with sex.

Liam had rolled his neck, pushed his scalp against the bristles of the hairbrush and sighed when Noel let his other hand rest on his right shoulder, absently rubbing the juncture with his thumb. And Noel’s throat felt syrupy, like he would drown in his own body, the feeling when you know you’re wading in too deep, but you just can’t stop. It was dangerous, he knew it. To allow himself, let alone Liam, to pretend this was alright. But he couldn’t stop. It was too delicious. Soaked in love. When he finished he ran his fingers through Liam’s hair once, twice, three times, then again, again, _I can’t stop, _remembering the blonde it had been when he was only a boy, those highlights still coming out sometimes these days when the sun shone just right. He’s got chameleonic hair, seeming to turn an even sweeter caramel with every millimeter grown. Then Liam had turned and climbed back atop Noel’s thighs and whispered _thank you_ through a sloppy kiss, which was quite unlike him, but welcome nonetheless.

He’d also whispered an _I love you _which had gone unanswered. Even at under three months, this was already becoming a significant strain on their relationship – Noel unwilling to say those words, even though they were both smart enough to know he felt it. At least, he tells himself Liam knows.

Noel brings himself back to the present as the song changes and Liam opens his eyes. “_Youuuuu’re in suspensheeeeun!_” Liam sneers at him, “_You’re a liar!_”

He’s only quoting the lyrics, but it’s true.

⟡ ⟡ ⟡

“Who’s prettier, her or me?”

“She’s a girl. You don’t stand a chance.”

(Louise is stunning, but he’s bluffing. Of fucking course Liam stands a chance. He wouldn’t be in Noel’s bed if he didn’t.)

“Alright, _better-looking, _then.”

“What’ll you do if I say it’s her?”

“I’ll bite your dick off.”

“Fuck’s sake, you can’t say that while you’ve got it in your fucking hand.”

Liam bares his teeth and lunges forward jokingly, making Noel laugh and push his head away.

“Don’t test me,” the singer taunts.

“You’re a freak.”

“A good-looking freak, yeah?” Liam smiles, looking almost shy, but he’s not shy. It’s contentment, Noel assumes, as the younger gets back to work stroking his foreskin back and forth, tongue sneaking out pink like it’s saying _be right there. _Entitlement, maybe: proud to have what he thinks he deserves. It’s almost as though Noel can feel each and every ridge of his thumbprint resounding against the tip of his cock, which is sort of magical in the most humiliating way imaginable.

“’course you are.”

“Drop-dead gorgeous, they call it.” He goes down and sucks shallow, tastes what Noel’s leaking for him, just a bit, still stroking him even and measured. He’s good with his hands. “More than her.”

“_Drop dead _is right.”

“_Noel_.”

“You know I’m not going to say anything.”

Liam licks a long stripe up him the way they do in dirty pictures. “And _you _know I know exactly what that means.” Noel’s never made eye contact this intense with a woman, never in his life.

“Enough.”

And because it’s Saturday night and they’re wine-drunk and young and in some sort of supernova of creativity, a new song every week, it _is _enough, and Liam nods and takes Noel in all the way until his eyes water under oscillating lashes and twelve minutes later he lets him come just like that, right down his throat. Nothing else matters, anyway.

⟡ ⟡ ⟡

Someone over six feet tall meets his eye in front of the Rembrandt exhibition, thick glasses, the sort of masculine energy that wears white t-shirts and Doc Martens and can fix a car engine and likes intelligent poetry and doesn’t make you feel like a girl. Noel had let one like that touch him last year in New Haven, Connecticut, of all places, some hanger-on after the Inspirals’ show whose name was lost to the ether by half-six in the morning.

He wasn’t prettier than Liam, and neither is Louise, and neither is this stranger at the gallery, who pushes his tongue against the inside of his cheek when they pass in the toilets fourteen minutes later. _Ignore it. _The day reaches dizzying levels of confusion when the very same man later starts a dialogue with Louise about whatever piece they’re looking at next, the two of them clearly informed on what they’re seeing, and Noel can tell the bloke is only trying to get _his _attention but it’s not working. He might be some sort of an intellectual but he’s shit at picking up signals if he can’t tell that Noel’s got no idea what the fuck he’s talking about.

Twenty-two hours later he’s sharing a post-orgasm cigarette with Liam while it snows outside.

“Who’s _Mattis?_”

“Who?”

“Henry Mattis.”

Noel could laugh for days. “It’s _Ma-tees_. I don’t think it’s pronounced _Henry_, either. He’s French.” Liam must have seen the museum booklet Louise left on the kitchen table. _Henri Matisse. _Henry Mattis. The singer could be a comedian if he wasn’t dead serious.

“Alright, who is he?”

“He’s a painter.”

His brother steals the cigarette away from him and takes an overlong drag, rolling his eyes emphatically and miming a yawn. “Boring.”

And it’s so stupid and pointless and Noel feels love fill his entire wretched being, and he stubs out the cig so he can reach over and kiss him fully, leave indents on his jawline from the roughness of his fingertips where they hold them both together, _don’t fucking move_. Liam laughs inside his mouth, their mouths.

_Thank fuck you’re you._ Noel’s never really wanted anybody else.

**Author's Note:**

> i've seen it said somewhere before that louise looked like kate moss "but prettier". i rly wanna see a pic of her and noel together :O


End file.
